


Thanksgiving in Baker Street - The Third Anniversary Edition

by DonnesCafe



Series: Baker Street Thanksgivings [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babies, F/M, Family, Fluff, Food, Friendship, Happy families, Love, M/M, Morning Sex, Mycroft is the bomb, Thanksgiving, sherlock cooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: Three years on and some things have changed since last Thanksgiving. This year features three locations, two competing turkey proposals, one dog, new and incipient participants, and a surprise for Sherlock. Can sort of be read as a standalone but it will make more sense if it's read as a series.





	1. Chapter 1

“Remind me again why we’re doing the turkey?” John looked dubiously at the huge, pale, dead bird gracing the kitchen table. “Will that thing even fit in our oven?” He rubbed his hand through his bed-mussed hair. He had woken in the dark to the sounds of clattering and chopping. Sherlock’s side of the bed had been cold. 

Sherlock looked up from the herbs he was chopping. John could smell fresh tarragon and sage. 

“Yes, barely. I measured. Coffee’s made,” Sherlock said, tilting his head toward the counter. “We are doing the turkey for two reasons. First, Mycroft lost the coin toss.” 

“Ah,” said John, moving toward the coffee and pouring himself a cup. “That argument about who was the best cook and what your sainted French Grandmother Vernet said about the competing Christmas geese in 1994. I remember now.” 

“Exactly. Mine was the most creative,” said Sherlock. He began stripping tiny leave of fresh thyme from a miniature stalk. “Honey, five-spice powder, lemon and thyme. Delicious.” He waggled the thyme stalk for emphasis. 

“Mycroft said his was the most authentic.” 

“Port and prunes with sausage,” Sherlock replied, nose wrinkling. “Boring. He would have had his cook do the turkey, anyway, and then claimed he had done it himself. Mycroft has no shame, and he is an accomplished liar. Thanksgiving is all about family and friends, is it not? The turkey needed the personal touch. Which brings us to reason number two.” 

“Mrs. Hudson’s hip,” John said. “Right. Logistics.” 

“This way Hudders gets to participate in most of the meal. She can’t cook this year, but she can at least supervise.” 

This was the year that Mrs. Hudson had finally been persuaded by the combined efforts of them all to get her dicey hip replaced. The clincher had been Mycroft’s offer to recruit Her Majesty’s own lofty and titled orthopedic surgeon to do the deed. As far as Mrs. Hudson was concerned, what was good enough for Elizabeth was good enough for her. Mycroft also insisted on providing a hospital bed and nurses for her own flat instead of a rehab facility after she was discharged from hospital the week before. Last Thanksgiving’s feast had been a scrambled affair in America around Sherlock’s hospital bed. Mycroft put his foot down this year. No hospitals. His care for Mrs. H left Sherlock secretly feeling charitable toward him this year. Not enough to let him do the turkey, however. Prunes indeed. 

As it was, Mrs. H was still mostly bed-bound. Sherlock came up with a plan. He and John would do the cooking in both flats, since his plan called for two ovens. They would have starters in her flat, then the main feast in 221b. Mrs. Hudson insisted that she and Gladys, her day nurse, would be fine if they brought down plates for them. 

“You’re fussing more than enough to include me, Sherlock dear,” she had said. “You’re not carrying a 25 pound turkey down those stairs.” He had offered, of course. “Besides,” she continued, poor Molly and Greg won’t be here for the turkey either.” 

Molly and Lestrade were expecting their first child. They were over the moon about it, but Molly developed some worrying symptoms in the last month. She was a bit old for a first child and was on bed rest in their new flat on Grove Road near Victoria Park. The plan was for everyone (except Mrs. Hudson and Gladys) to make their way to the Lestrade’s for deserts late in the afternoon. Lestrade insisted that he could make pumpkin pie with canned pumpkin as well as the next man, and Molly could direct him from bed in the accomplishment of her mother’s recipe for sticky toffee pudding. Since Sherlock was a bit worried about Molly, he didn’t even demur at the canned pumpkin. This was turning into a whatever-works year. Since he was in hospital last year, was only semi-conscious most of Thanksgiving day, and was only allowed a tiny slice of leftover Zabar’s pie the next day, this was progress. 

Mycroft, hearing the basic plan, was admittedly helpful except for the turkey argument. He arranged (or had Anthea arrange, which was more likely) for the traditional main courses to be delivered to Molly and Greg from Fortnum’s since they would miss the turkey at Baker Street. He arranged for a pumpkin pie and a black forest gateau to be delivered for Mrs. Hudson and Gladys from the same establishment since they would miss desert. Anthea thoughtfully acquired several ounces of prime Indica for Mycroft to take down to the ladies as an after-dinner soother. 

John made toast and drank his coffee while Sherlock peeled and cored and chopped Anjou pears. Then an onion. Then celery. He stalled for as long as he could, but fair was fair. 

“Right, then,” said John. “What can I do?” 

“You can take Gladstone for his walk.” 

There was a yip from the bedroom, then the scrabbling of paws on the wooden floor. The little bulldog was almost a year old now, a present from Mycroft last Christmas. He could hear his name from anywhere in the flat. He ran into the kitchen, greeting them with his usual joyous barks and nuzzles. Sherlock’s face softened. That, he thought, had been one of Mycroft’s better ideas. John adored Gladstone, and Sherlock admitted to being rather fond of the dog himself. 

“I’ll start toasting and cutting up the brioche and soaking the dried apricots for the stuffing while you’re out.” 

“No cornbread? I like Mrs. Hudson’s stuffing.” 

“If you want to continue our Thanksgiving annual morning tradition, you’ll refrain from invidious comparisons.” 

Since their Thanksgiving morning tradition was sex, John grinned and headed back into their bedroom to dress. 

“C’mon, Glad,” he said, “walkies!”


	2. Chapter 2

“Stop thinking about the turkey. It’ll be fine.” John ran his hand lazily down Sherlock’s naked back. He had long since gotten used to the scarred ridges. Damn Serbia and all Serbians. Every time he felt those, he remembered just how close Sherlock had come to never coming home. John sent up a prayer of thanks for each ridge that he touched. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head gently. 

Sherlock buried his head into John’s side and sighed. “It has to be perfect,” he mumbled. “I need to go baste it. Mycroft said…” 

“Do _not_ say that name in this bed, Sherlock Holmes.” 

A faint chuckle wafted up. “Fair enough, but I need to…” 

“Hush. If you don’t forget about the damned turkey and Mycroft for twenty minutes, I’ll cuff your sorry ass to the bedpost. Get your priorities straight. If you cooperate, on the other hand, I’ll do that thing you like.” 

Sherlock’s head came up, his eyes were glinting. “Couldn’t we do both? If I’m very good.” 

John reached over to the bedside table, fished around, and came up with cuffs and lube. 

“Repeat after me. ‘Sod the turkey.’” 

“S..Sod the turkey,” breathed Sherlock, pupils dilating. 

John nodded briskly and went to work. 

~~~~ 

The turkey, as it turned out, was forgiving. So was Gladys, who had to peel the sweet potatoes by herself. John left Sherlock upstairs with the turkey, wildly chopping cranberries and oranges for the relish and muttering about his yeast rolls. John was supposed to be helping Gladys with the sweet potato casserole, the fresh tomato and basil soup, the brussels sprouts, and some American abomination involving canned green beans and canned mushroom soup. He took one last longing look at Sherlock, whose hair was mussed, whose wrists were rubbed red, and whose lips were… Jesus. He forced himself to turn and clatter down the stairs. 

“God, Gladys, I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said. He went over to the hospital bed and kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek. “Sorry, Mrs. H. I had to… um… walk Gladstone. Then Sherlock was fussing about the….” 

“John dear,” Mrs. Hudson whispered, holding his head down close to hers. “Your bedroom is right above me,” she pointed, “and Sherlock sounded quite happy to me. _Very_ happy, as a matter of fact. And that makes _me_ happy.” She swatted his arm. “Now go help Gladys with the soup.”

John did.


	3. Chapter 3

“Just throw the damned ball,” Greg shouted. 

“Where did you even get this?” Mycroft held the ovoid monstrosity in front of him as if the pigskin personally offended him. Perhaps it did. In Mycroft’s opinion, the only game for a gentleman was cricket, but if forced by circumstances to play footie, the ball should be round. 

“Borrowed it from Joe Farmer. Mate on the force. Transplanted Yank.” Lestrade waved his arms from across the imaginary 50 yard line marked by a large beech tree in Victoria Park. “Be grateful we’re playing girlie football from a standing start. Throw the damned ball.” 

Mycroft sighed. Lestrade had decreed two-on-two American football in the park as a new addition to their Thanksgiving tradition as an after-dessert activity. He looked down at his calf leather Grenson Albert wing-tips, already smirched with dirt and leaf mold. In for a penny. He entered his Mind Palace to check the proper stance from the Army Navy game he had attended once with the American Ambassador many years ago near Baltimore. He cocked his arm back and let fly. Somewhat to his surprise, the ball spiraled through the air, straight and true. 

“Good one,” yelled John, his ‘team-mate,” clapping him on the back. John hared off toward the opposing ‘team’ (Sherlock and Lestrade). Mycroft jogged after him, thinking about his shoes. And his suit. 

Sherlock caught the ball neatly and eeled around John as if greased. He barreled toward the lamp-post standing in for the goal. Mycroft had a decision to make. Suit or honor. He chose honor and used a kick to bring Sherlock down. 

Sherlock gasped, winded. 

“ _Kalaripayattu,”_ he coughed, plucking a piece of grass from his lips. “Not an orthodox defensive move, Mycroft.” 

“All’s fair, as they say.” Since he had taught Sherlock the obscure and ancient Tamil martial art when Lock was 10, his brother should have seen it coming. Mycroft preferred to avoid field work, but he was a sensible man. Never let your skills atrophy. 

“What _was_ that?” Lestrade loped up. “Damn, Mycroft, it looked like something from that movie.” 

“Movie?” 

“I think he is referring to ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,’” said Sherlock, feeling his leg for damage. Mycroft had been careful to pull the blow, but it still hurt like the devil. “Chinese tradition, but similar approach to the _kula marmas.”_

“Ah,” said Mycroft, “You’re not hurt?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock, grinning. “Good to see that your pudgy exterior doesn’t mean you’ve let yourself go totally to seed.” 

“I am _not_ …,” 

Just then, Greg mobile chirped. 

“Molly? Oh, Mrs. H… how’s… what? When?” They all saw the blood drain from his face. 

John walked over to him calmly and plucked the phone from his hand. 

“It’s John. Is everything…. Oh. Take a deep breath. Ok? How much blood? Was her water pink or red? Red? Is she conscious? Call an ambulance now. You did? You’re the best. We’ll be there before you know it. Just stay with her. Tell her Greg is on his way. Yeah.” 

He put Greg’s mobile in his own pocket. 

“It’s going to be fine,” he said, squeezing Lestrade’s shoulder, but we need to run now. Yeah?” 

“Run,” he yelled to Sherlock and Mycroft. 

They did. 

~~~~~ 

John made it there before the ambulance. If it hadn’t been Molly, thought Sherlock, he would have enjoyed seeing John in full Captain Watson/Dr. Watson mode. John hissed orders, clipped and totally focused. He ordered Greg from the room. He ordered Mrs. Hudson to boil a lot of water, sterilize a sharp knife, some tongs to use as forceps, some scissors, then make tea for Greg. He ordered Sherlock to hold Molly’s hand and keep her awake. And breathing. He ordered Mycroft to find clean sheets and towels. He ordered Molly to hang on. He ordered God to intervene and prevent her blood pressure from dropping too low. No bleeding out on his watch, thank you very much. They all obeyed him. Of course. 

But it was Molly, and Sherlock was terrified and breathless through the whole ordeal. He had the presence of mind, however, to curse the paramedics thoroughly for their tardiness when they finally showed up. Chastened, they admitted that Dr. Watson had done everything necessary. They examined a white-faced but smiling Molly and declared the crisis over. They examined a red-faced and squalling baby-boy Lestrade and pronounced him slightly premature but stable. 

They suggested the hospital, but Mycroft assessed the mood of the room perfectly. That was one of his many skills, and he was happy to use it on this occasion. 

“We will make our own arrangements. Will around the clock nurses until Mrs. Lestrade and Master Lestrade feel ready to consult their physician be satisfactory?” 

The paramedics nodded compliantly, as had so many world leaders before them. 

“That will be all then, gentlemen,” said Mycroft. Sherlock could have kissed him. Of course, he refrained. 

Sherlock’s knees suddenly felt weak, and he sank to the bed beside Molly and the hideous squalling bundle squirming on her stomach. 

Mycroft’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Mycroft knew everything, of course. How close they had come. How devastated he would have been. How few friends he had. How important they were. How little defense he really had anymore. 

Mycroft held a small, warm towel out to Lestrade. “Have you ever swaddled an infant?” 

“Um… no.” 

“Let me show you.” And he did. Sherlock tried not to let his jaw drop. Surely this was purely theoretical knowledge? The mind boggled. 

Master Lestrade quieted in his father’s arms. Greg looked totally besotted. He kissed his son’s red cheek. Sherlock sniffed. He wasn’t as ready to forgive. He could have lost Molly. He looked at John. John was still rather grey. Yes, confirmed. They could have lost Molly. 

Molly looked exhausted, but she was with them again. She smiled at Greg. He came over and kissed her, running a hand through her sweaty hair. 

“You’re ok?” 

“Yeah,” she said, “but you all look terrible.” 

Shaky laughter all around. 

“Oh, Greg! The cake!” She perked up. “We haven’t done the cake.” 

“Molls, sweetheart, are you sure you want to do this now?” 

“Of course! I’m fine, just a little tired. You explain, ok?” 

He smiled at her again, then looked down at his son. 

“Yeah, since we’re all here. Mrs. Hudson, there’s a cake-box in the fridge. Could you bring it in? Don’t open the box. We’ll just do it here. John, if you could bring in some plates, forks, you know….” 

“Sure,” said John. Strange time to be thinking about cake, especially since they had already had pumpkin pie and sticky toffee pudding, but it had been a strange day altogether. 

Soon a large white bakery box was sitting on the bed beside Molly. A knife, small plates, forks perched on the bedside table. 

Greg settled young Lestrade in the crook of Molly’s arm, then ran a hand through his hair. 

“Well,” he said, “we gave in last month and asked to know the sex.” 

“And you didn’t _tell_ us?” Mrs. Hudson sounded indignant. 

“We decided that we’d announce today, since we knew you were coming over. You know that whole ‘blue cake’ thing? Yeah,” said Greg. “Didn’t expect the little bugger for another month, but he seemed to have a mind of his own.” He reached down and touched the little bundle, now seemingly asleep. “But we also decided on a name. We wanted it to be a surprise. We… well.” He reached down and lifted the top of the box. 

Blue icing-sugar script, atop the snowy white of the buttercream frosting of the cake, proclaimed, “It’s a boy! Sherlock William Hamish Lestrade.” 

“We’re planning to call him Will,” said Molly, “if that’s…. I mean Sherlock is sort of a mouthful, but we thought….” Her voice faltered. 

Sherlock had gone very still. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

“Just if it’s ok with you, mate,” said Lestrade, carefully. “If you’d rather us not use a family name…” 

Sherlock looked up. 

“You _are_ my family,” he whispered. “Oh, Molly…” 

He reached out and grasped her hand. 

“Are you sure?” 

Molly smiled. “Of course I’m sure. You and John will be his godfathers, if that’s ok?” 

“More than ok,” said John. “We’d be honored.” 

Mycroft beamed. Which was a somewhat frightening sight. 

“And I’ll take care of his schooling, of course,” said Mycroft. 

“We couldn’t…,” Greg began. Mycroft smoothly cut in. If he was to be involved in Master Sherlock’s (Will’s… whatever) life, the sooner they got used to his involvement the better. 

“Of course you can. Now I went to Eton, but Sherlock went to Winchester. Both excellent schools. I brought a bottle of 50 year old Balvenie Double Wood that we haven’t opened yet. Let me pour you some, and we can talk.” 

Greg cast a desperate eye toward Sherlock. 

Sherlock just shrugged from his perch on Molly’s bed. He carefully picked Will up. He kissed his silky forehead, then settled him in his lap. 

“Don’t let it concern you,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft can be quite useful. Go and enjoy your Scotch. We’ll be here, won’t we Will?” 

Will began to cry. Loudly. 

“Hungry? Don’t forget the nurses, Myc,” said Sherlock, handing him off quickly to Molly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mycroft. “I never forget anything.”


End file.
